


Kiss It Better

by PrincessAutumnArcher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Actor AU, Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Loki is a drama queen, Married Couple, Possessiveness, Romance, and a theatre nerd, no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAutumnArcher/pseuds/PrincessAutumnArcher
Summary: When Loki receives news of his nomination for an Academy Award, you're ecstatic. How could you not be? You've been by his side as Loki fought to rise in the cutthroat industry of cinema and you know he's poured himself into making sure his passion for acting burns star-bright. Yet all your happiness for your husband can't quell the jealousy festering in your heart after you bear witness to one unfortunate example of his exquisite acting skills.There's just one thing left for Loki to do: kiss it better.A.k.a. the Actor!AU that nobody asked for but I insisted on delivering. Loki masquerading as Odin literally threw plays so he could sit around eating grapes and enjoying the fine arts, how could I not? Open for super fluff and a lot of kissing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will insert Shakespeare references in everything I write until someone pries the Bard out of my cold, dead hands, and that's that.  
> Bonus points to readers who catch the other allusions in this fic too! Enjoy!

You glance beside you as last year’s Best Actress takes the stage to a fanfare of applause and swelling strings, spotlights sliding to illuminate her as she smiles brightly out into the crowd. Wanda Maximoff is resplendent in a scarlet dress that wraps around her figure before cascading out into sleek folds and waves that seem liquid in the limelight, but you have eyes only for the man cast half into shadow by her augmented brilliance as he stares, rapt with attention and thrumming with anticipation, at the stage.

Loki turns to you as if feeling your gaze and offers a quick, confident smile as he squeezes your hand in his; to any onlooker, he would have seemed completely and utterly unperturbed, entirely devoid of any emotion save unadulterated enthusiasm for the awards and cloaked in the unattainable, composed charm that had audiences across the globe swooning.

But you know your husband better. Though he conceals it well, nervousness and jittery hope hide behind his excitement; they peek out in the tension of his neck and the focused intensity of his gaze as he watches Wanda introduce the other nominees for Best Actor.

He wears his raven hair slicked back tonight, and the dark strands that feather over the base of his neck and shoulders do so in stark contrast to the fine alabaster of his skin, shining softly over the inky black of his suit and the faint, blackened emerald embroidery shimmering on his jacket. He looks regal, even with the tension coursing subtly through his body, and you find yourself unable to look away from the sharpness of his captivated profile.

“Loki Friggason, for _Jaguar: Rendezvous_.”

Your attention snaps back to the screen behind Wanda as she steps aside after introducing Loki.

Loki, interestingly enough, darts a fleeting look your way before returning pensively to the screen, the corner of his mouth crooking as his image appears; he doesn’t particularly enjoy watching his own performances, you’ve learned, but at times like this where it would be awkward to avert his eyes entirely, he has made a habit out of taking the opportunity to take critical notes on his presentation.

_“The thing is, I never feel guilty about my pleasures.”_

Your own lips quirk as you bite back a laugh at the scene’s opening line, delivered smoothly in a matter-of-fact voice that delves into velvety suggestion. The Academy had certainly chosen to play to their televised audience tonight, it seemed.

Pity…Loki had let you read the script after he’d received it—or rather, he’d left it out on the cushion of an armchair one night and you had swooped in to read it before he realized that he’d misplaced it—and there was a dramatic, particularly gripping monologue a bit later on in the film that you would have loved to see fleshed out. Still, watching Loki play out the part of an innocent man reluctantly corrupted into becoming a seductive megalomaniac was entertaining no matter which villainous excerpt the Academy deigned to show the masses, and so you settle into your chair, a smile playing about your lips.

“Ooh, saucy little thing, hm?” you tease Loki under your breath; he breaks away from his adopted role of critic to roll his eyes at you and raises your hand to his lips, nipping at your knuckle under the guise of brushing a brief kiss to your skin.

Onscreen, Loki’s character, Tom, has cornered his love interest; you sweep your thumb absently over Loki’s hand as you watch him growl at her heatedly, _“And I refuse to make you an exception.”_

A strange, cold _something_ rises uncomfortably in your chest as you watch Tom stalk towards Scarlett (played immaculately by the beautiful Natasha Romanoff, although your friend onscreen is far from recognizable, her signature vibrant red bob replaced by chestnut waves, none of her spitfire personality showing through the palpable fear on her character’s face). Your eyes narrow at the screen as you struggle to name the unfamiliar paroxysm spreading through your body.

_“Tom, this isn’t some game. You can’t use people like this. I thought you cared about being a good person?”_

Natasha’s delivery hits the perfect balance between plea and taunt, and the camera catches it in her eyes, as well as the manic, hackling fire in Loki’s eyes as the scene cuts back to Tom’s figure, camera focusing in on the prominence of his cheekbones under taut skin, a hint of stubble roughening the sharp delineation of his jaw.

 _“Haven’t you figured it out yet?”_ Tom’s voice drops to a husky whisper, meant to raise goosebumps. Your body obeys, a prickling sensation sweeping over your limbs as you shiver subconsciously. _“It’s good to be bad.”_

His lips crash against hers and the click of handcuffs locking into place echoes over her protesting gasp. One hand seizes her chin tightly, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he snarls, _“I am ruthless, do you understand?”_

The camera pans out, taking a wide shot of Tom crouching over Scarlett, turning her face from side to side with one hand and angling it cruelly as if considering which view of her terror is the most pleasing. (You know that this was Loki’s motivation for the unscripted blocking, thanks to his scribbled notes in the margins of the script.)

 _“I do so hate to disappoint you like this, but the truth of this world is that there are only two kinds of people in it: villains and idiots. I refuse to die knowing I could have made more for myself, could have_ been _more.”_

You recognize a smear of Loki in Tom’s wild-eyed, ghastly intense expression, as discomfiting as the knowledge is, and you watch, riveted, as he leers at the woman cowering under him. His hand slides up the length of her naked shin, and the discomfort in your chest darkens, wriggling into your lungs and tightening almost painfully around your ribs.

“Darling?”

You look over, startled, at the hushed, concerned query. Loki has broken from his brooding, critical occupation to look at you, a question fixed in his clear celadon eyes.

You shake your head in reassurance and he offers you a slight, pained smile; your brows furrow in confusion and Loki wriggles his fingers. With a shock, you realize that your grip had tightened drastically around his hand; you release him and watch with a dazed, morbid curiosity as blood rushes back to his long fingers and he flexes them gingerly.

“Sorry,” you whisper, but Loki has already turned back to the screen, and all you receive in response is a gentle pat on the hand and a small upturn of the corners of his mouth before you too plunge back into the drama unfolding onscreen.

 _“Foolish, blind people like Edmund and Iago can chase power all through their miserable lives because they crave it. But I’m one step ahead, Scarlett. Power craves_ me _. I was meant to bring you the subjugation every fibre of your body longs for. I am the inevitable, the ultimate. It’s not about being good or bad. It’s about my destiny.”_

Your eyes are wide as Tom finishes his speech, eyes alight with something between fury and pride. He leans in, the tip of his nose brushing Scarlett’s as he hisses gleefully, _“And I am not guilty.”_

The score explodes in a shriek of brass and violin when he lurches forward, biting down vehemently on Scarlett’s lower lip, hands tearing at the buttons on her shirt. Tom exhales hotly against her, allowing her a few precious seconds to draw in heaving breaths before he crushes her protests with another bruising kiss.

Her cry is swallowed by the booming dissonance of a piano chord as the screen abruptly cuts to a shot of Tom in bed, panting as he jerks awake from his nightmare. The lighting here is different, cooler yet somehow soft, as though the lighting department managed to drape a pale blue cotton sheet over the sun. The camera zooms out to reveal Scarlett sleeping peacefully beside him, one bare shoulder peeking out from beneath pristine white sheets as she rolls to face Tom, opening one eye to ask in a voice thickened by drowsiness, _“Bad dream, baby?”_

He nods wordlessly, shock and horror moving in slow waves over his face, and slides down slowly to rejoin her in bed, sweeping the knuckles of one unsteady hand gently over her cheek.

 _“Kiss me?”_ he requests woefully, voice hoarse and hollow, and the piano starts up a foreboding melody as she smiles sweetly, blissfully unaware of everything that has just transpired in his mind, and lays her lips over his in response.

The camera does not fail to capture his relief or the needy, desperate way he clings to her.

You feel sick. Although Tom’s hair is short and very, very blond, combed into springing curls over tan, slightly freckle-sprinkled skin, he wears Loki’s face, and the discomfort plummets suddenly from your chest to the pit of your stomach before leaping into your cheeks and remaining there as a dark flush as you finally put your finger on the emotion plaguing you.

Jealousy burns bitter in your throat, searing through your thoughts as the screen fades to black, taking away the frozen image of your husband in another woman’s embrace. You know this is stupid and groundless and petty, that there is an enormous gap between actors and their characters, not to mention the artificiality and synthesis of the art that is onscreen chemistry.

You know that Loki is steadfastly faithful, that it would never cross his mind to entertain some dalliance behind your back. You know that this was just part of his job (in fact, you’re fairly certain that he had called you from set the day this scene was filmed, because you remember him complaining about having to do sit-ups in a prop bed for hours because the director wasn’t satisfied with the scene, and you also recall that phone call containing an inordinate amount of “ _I love you_ ”s and very specific pet names that Loki normally only broke out on anniversaries), and that Natasha is very happily involved with someone saved as “Tall, Dark, HANDsome” on her phone. (You can’t begrudge the woman her privacy, even if the unusual name does make you want to pry. After all, you remember the chaos when photos of you and Loki together were first leaked all too clearly.)

You know all of this, and yet the sour taste in your mouth lingers, weighing you down like lead in your intestines.

Loki’s hand brushes yours as he leans forward, and your forced smile softens a little at the genuine excitement glowing on his face. _This is his night_ , you remind yourself harshly. He’s poured himself into this film and you know it, so you push down the burn of unwarranted jealousy as best you can and tune in to Wanda as she steps back up to the microphone.

“And the Academy Award for Actor in a Leading Role goes to…”

You can hear the capitalization in her words as Wanda pauses to open the envelope, smoky peridot eyes glittering as she stretches out the suspense and draws the paper out so slowly you think you might burst from holding back a scream.

Her eyes lift from the paper in her hand and a smile spreads across her painted lips. She leans into the microphone and says clearly, every syllable crisp and perfect, “Loki Friggason, for _Jaguar: Rendezvous_.”

Applause deafens you as you whip around to Loki, elation drowning out anything and everything else in your body, at least for that glorious moment. He looks dubious, mouth slack and eyes wide under high, rounded eyebrows, until you throw your arms around him and kiss his cheek, taking care not to leave a lipstick mark on his unblemished, pale skin.

The disbelief melts into an instant of shock before a broad, triumphant grin illuminates his face like dawn breaking on the horizon; he seizes you and kisses you straight on the mouth, _hard_ , then saunters to the stage as cheerful drums and strings roll in his wake.

On anyone else, his self-assured gait and bright smirk would have been unbearably cocky, but Loki weaves them into the perpetual, magnetic allure that built his public image. If Wanda was resplendent as a queen, your husband is truly magnificent in a way that only gods can think to capture.

Two giant screens magnify your husband as he accepts the statuette and strides to the microphone; you don’t even bother to try sorting out the swirl of proud, delighted possessiveness, embarrassment, and assorted emotion that tangles itself in your chest at the sight of your lipstick very visibly staining his mouth like some kind of wine-hued overlay.

Natasha catches your eye from a few rows over and winks exaggeratedly; you wave an exasperated hand in her direction and you both share a silent laugh before you turn back eagerly to Loki.

He hefts the statuette, and you really aren’t sure whether it or his smile are brighter. “I would like to thank the Academy,” he begins, awestricken glee and gratitude obvious despite his outward composure, “for this award, it’s an unbelievable honour and I am so grateful to be here tonight. Thank you to my castmates and the amazing crew that made _Jaguar: Rendezvous_ possible and such a pleasure to be a part of.”

Your stomach twists sharply as he names the director, producer, and Natasha in particular, and you remind yourself that this is all perfectly normal for an acceptance speech. After all, he’s wearing _your_ lipstick like a badge of honour on live national television, not theirs.

“Working on this film was such a fantastic experience, going in search of the most vulnerable parts of my mind and forcing them out into the open so that Tom could take them and turn them into something thoroughly horrid was difficult, painful, and profoundly touching. His is a story of love and how easy it is to lose, and how easy it is to lose yourself when you go in search of it again. I hope that when people see this film, they see the tragic journey of a man who could be any of us, and I hope that it opens their eyes to the world we live in.”

Loki’s eyes are molten as he looks into the camera for a moment more before turning his gaze to the audience, homing in on where you sit with an intensity that pins you to your seat.

“And last but most certainly not least, an immense amount of gratitude is due to my wife, without whom I would never have been able to stand here tonight. Darling, thank you for enduring my absences and my moods, giving me a world of support no matter the distance between us, and tolerating my feeble attempts to reciprocate with the kindness of an angel.”

He raises two fingers to the side of his mouth, where your lipstick has marked him the darkest, and presses his fingertips to his lips before beaming at you. You know that it’s too far for him to really see you, let alone see you clearly, what with the distance and the bright spotlights obstructing his vision, but you blow a kiss back anyways, your chest brimming with emotion.

The jealousy has reduced itself to a pinprick, and you quash it beneath the heel of your heart as Loki continues despite the teleprompter beginning to flash at him as a warning that his allotted time is nearly over.

“Every time I look at you, I see a kingdom in your eyes, and I’m so grateful that you’ve chosen me to stand by your side and take on this life together. Thank you.”

The gold on his finger gleams beside the Oscar as he raises his clenched hand and walks offstage, practically glowing from within as he shares a celebratory smile and hug with Wanda. Natasha twists around to face you again with a comically over-exaggerated grin on her face as she pretends to swoon and fan herself. You’re sure that she’ll corner you for further teasing at the afterparty, so you only roll your eyes and flap a hand at her while stifling your own giggle.

As the closing remark speakers begin their short formalities, you allow your thoughts to turn to Loki, radiant pride settling warmly over your body. It had been silly of you to ever feel jealous because of one measly scene from a film he’d acted in, but obviously he deserved the award—he’d managed to make his own wife believe the heated attraction between his character and Natasha’s, for crying out loud. So it was no wonder that you’d reacted so fiercely—Loki was simply too gifted an actor.

You repeat this to yourself throughout the photoshoots and afterparties and brief interviews that followed the awards as you floated after Loki. It was true, wasn’t it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the ways to describe Loki sprawling out somewhere, "flaccid goth starfish" is my new favourite.   
> Lots of flirty action in here, proceed at your own risk. ;)

Loki groans, long and loud, as he throws himself down on the bed, arms and legs splayed so that he resembles a flaccid, goth starfish, as you walk together into your bedroom, but the good-natured grin on his face as he does so tells you that he’s still giddy, drunk on the sheer euphoria of his win and the congratulations that have trailed in his wake all evening.

You can’t help but laugh at him as he stretches, spine arching against the sheets like an oversized cat dangerously close to tumbling off the edge of the mattress. Loki immediately throws a hand over his forehead in mock anguish, peering up at you as you shake your head lightly at him.

“Oh, how my lady _wounds_ me,” he cries as you grin at his antics but walk past him and into the ensuite bathroom in order to begin erasing the magnificent Look your makeup artist had created on your face. When another handful of seconds slides by without a response from you, he calls again forlornly, “You’ll have to tell them that I’ve died of a broken heart, mocked mercilessly by the one dearest to my heart.”

A theatrical cry of distress rises from the bed as you wipe away your mascara, rubbing your lashes between the damp cloth to get every speck of dry black gel off the delicate skin of your eyelids. “O, I am slain!”

Chuckling, you call back, “When you’re quite done writhing in mortal agony, beloved husband of mine, could you come haunt your cruel wife and help me unzip this dress?”

He’s at the doorway before you’re done with the other eye, leaning suavely against the doorframe as he loosens his tie and sheds his suit jacket with a single practiced motion.

“You only need ask,” he purrs, “and I shall do as you desire. Allow the haunting to commence.”

He leans over your shoulder and meets your eyes in the mirror with a widened, rounded gaze of his own as his lips pucker into an _ooh_ of counterfeit spookiness while his large, long-fingered hands wave about your heads in a spectacle that provokes more amusement than terror.

“Behold, the ghost of an innocent man, wrongfully scorned. He lay dying in the throes of his woeful suffering,” Loki proclaims darkly behind you, voice careening into a wail, “ _tragically_ neglected by the only one who could have saved him from this unspeakable fate.”

His hands slide up your back, tracing the dip and surge of your spine on his way to the zipper of your dress as he holds your eyes captive in the mirror, his breath tickling your ear. “And now he is doomed to haunt her forevermore, bound by undying fidelity and love beyond even his mortality.”

Your answering laughter sparkles in the air as Loki unzips your dress with a small smile and a flourish, his perpetually cool hands running over your bare stomach and coming up to rest just under the swell of your breasts as Loki pulls himself flush with your back and nuzzles into you, your dress falling to the floor in a forgotten pool of lush, glimmering fabric.

“I still can’t believe you made your speech with this on your face,” you murmur as you lean back into his embrace, tilting your head back over his arm as you trace your fingers over the remnants of lipstick marring his alabaster complexion.

He attacks you in a flurry of kisses and playful, teasing teeth, tickling your exposed neck with his breath until you squeal in protest. Roguish green eyes glitter down at you as he dips you suddenly, laughing richly as you shriek and scrabble for a firmer hold on his arms and around his chest.

“How else was everyone supposed to know who I belong to?” he retorts mischievously as he sets you back on your feet and graciously allows you to finish cleansing your face.

“Besides,” he ponders with a blasé air that still only comes across half as arrogant as it ought to, “after they chose _that_ scene to act as an example of why I won, I’m sure at least seven tabloid rags will be running stories insisting it was Natasha’s doing by tomorrow morning.”

You freeze halfway into washing your face, water overflowing out of your cupped hands and into the sink. Loki’s words hit you like a slap to the face, and in an instant all your suppressed rage and jealousy flares back like an inferno bursting in your chest.

“Isn’t that what’s been bothering you all night?” Loki asks gently, his eyes slanting towards you probingly, voice excruciatingly soft and patient. It’s just what you want, just what you _need_ , but something rears its contrary head in your skull and you hear yourself answer brightly,

“What? No, nothing’s the matter.”

You close your eyes to avoid his all too perceptive gaze as you violently splash handfuls of water over your face before groping blindly for the faucet handle and shutting off the flow. You turn in search of a towel, only to hear Loki sigh wearily and present you with one, pressing the fluffy material into your outstretched hands.

“When will you learn that it’s useless to lie to me?” he asks as you bury your face in the towel, refusing to relinquish the excuse to continue dodging eye contact. “Darling, if my hand had a throat you would have strangled it past death when the scene played in the theatre, you were fidgeting all through the afterparty, and you looked like you wanted to murder the foolish woman who asked me if offscreen chemistry was important to perform convincing onscreen relationships. What else was there to upset you, if not that?”

Damn. You should have known that Loki could read you like a book.

Reluctantly, you stop patting your face with the towel and look ruefully at Loki. Still, something baleful in your chest was loath to admit the reason for your behaviour. You can’t bear to make this night about you and your insecurities, not when Loki’s just climbed a peak in his career and ought to be celebrating still with champagne and laughter and _anything_ that isn’t you moping and wallowing over his shoulder.

“I’m not upset with you,” you say honestly, clumsily skirting his question. “I’m just tired, today was just so long and I didn’t want to make you feel like I wasn’t excited for you, because I _am_ —”

He cuts you off, raising one elegant hand in the air to stop your babbling. It’s a weak excuse, transparent at best, and you know that Loki sees right through it, but he lets his hand fall without questioning you further.

“Alright,” he tells you as he leans forward and begins to dab away the makeup on his face too, “no more explanations.” You feel a twinge of remorse as he adds drily, “Especially if they’re all that pathetic.”

There’s a tiny smile flickering on his lips as he glances at you before returning his piercing gaze to the mirror and asking his reflection as a sort of final olive branch, “You’re sure it’s not something I can kiss all better?”

You hear the kind, teasing lilt in his voice and know that he’s just trying to make you feel better and offer you one last out, complete with a promise that he won’t force the truth from you, but at the moment, all you can remember is how infuriating his glib little remarks were when you first started dating, and it’s only by forcing yourself to look at the concern streaked below the playfulness in his eyes that you manage to fight the sudden urge to throw your makeup wipe at his head.

You force yourself to laugh lightly and tell him in a voice so airy it almost feels like a huff, “I suppose a kiss wouldn’t hurt,” as you change into an old, comfortable shirt of his and head to the bed before Loki has a chance to see the frown creasing your features.

 

The bed slopes for a moment under Loki’s weight as he crawls in beside you, and you’re tempted to turn over to face him; you feel his eyes on you, waiting hesitantly in the silence. You hope he knows that you really aren’t upset with _him_ , but you simply can’t bring yourself to even attempt your customary goodnight for fear of your fragile façade crumbling altogether.

The lamp clicks off and your bedroom is doused in darkness save for the slanted rhombi of clear, silvery moonlight falling through slats in the half-open blinds. He must look unearthly in this light, you think, bathed in pure, liquid silver like the prince of some fantastic alien kingdom.

It occurs to you, rather belatedly, that for all your efforts _not_ to end what should have been a long, celebratory night on a sour note, you’ve managed to do exactly that. A pang wracks your heart and you exhale heavily, warring with yourself before a second wave of regret and pain ripples through you, deciding the matter for you.

You falter, but muster your courage: “Loki?”

There’s a second of silence in response. You groan internally; you know he’s not asleep yet and that with the way you brushed him off earlier, you can’t expect his annoyance to simply evaporate, but that doesn’t mean his dedication to a certain amount of spite makes this any easier.

Still, you wait, drowning in the rush of your too-loud heartbeat as you listen to Loki’s even breathing and fall into a dizzying spiral of hypothetical scenarios in your head.

Finally, he says your name, copying the way your own voice tapered the final syllable into a question. He does so carefully, measuring out his concern into a perfect little dollop of emotion that leaves you enough room to back out again with an “I love you, goodnight”.

This is how Loki shows that he cares, that despite his scathing, icy lines of defense and his absolute lack of hesitance to employ them, he would still throw himself off a cliff if you asked. This is one of the many reasons you fell in love with him.

You’re tempted to take the easy escape, but there’s also an edge of coolness in his voice that stops you; Loki is many things, among them caring and magnanimous (when he wants to be, at least), but his patience for being toyed with is minimal, and though his love for you gives you a buffer of tolerance, you are testing its limits now.

So you swallow past the lump in your throat, roll around to face him before you lose your courage, and say in one rushed breath, voice rising unbidden into a cry, “I know it’s your job and you don’t feel anything for Natasha or any of your love interest co-cast but that scene tonight really bothered me and I’m _jealous_.”

Loki blinks, looking mildly taken aback, and you realize that perhaps you have actually fazed him into speechlessness, in some bizarre turn of events, before his expressions smooths into dispassion and he quips,

“Oh, is that all?”

You know that he probably deserves at least one little jibe, but your cheeks still burn in a blend of shame and indignance, and you can’t stop the hurt irritation from rising up and coloring your reply even as Loki reaches out to cradle you against his bare chest, his false nonchalance giving way to fond exasperation.

"Yes, Loki, that's all. Your wife is just feeling petty, and stupid, and jealous because her Oscar-winning husband—”

“—Has taken entirely too long to remind her that she is the only person on this earth that he wishes to hold so intimately." He punctuates each word with a flutter of his lips on your skin, working his way from the base of your throat up to your jaw. "To dream of, to fall asleep and wake up beside, to think of when he must be away."

His trail of kisses starts again at the center of your forehead, cool hands gently brushing hair away from your face. When a strangled cross between whimper and laugh escapes from your lips, he places the soft pad of his thumb over the plush, naked surface of your lower lip, pressing lightly into the skin until you lift your eyes to meet his, and smiles tenderly, his eyes illuminating with rosy affection over the high arches of his flawless cheeks. You soak in the sight until your corneas burn from dryness, and when your eyelids flutter closed to soothe the sting, he brushes two light kisses there too.

His lips land softly, precisely, on the very tip of your nose, and you can feel them purse in amusement when you wrinkle your nose in response, a heavy shot of warm air hitting your skin as he attempts to muffle his laughter. You open your eyes to find him gazing at you with a tender adoration that nearly frightens you; he looks so very soft and open and vulnerable like this, so removed from the polished, untouchable charisma that he wears like a second skin during the day.

Your cheeks flush under the solemn, sincere reverence of his gaze, and you hope futilely that he cannot feel the heat of your reddened skin under his lips; he chuckles knowingly as he pulls away and you hit his shoulder in embarrassment and mock indignation, eyes lowering to a safe spot on his triceps in the hopes that your blush will calm without Loki’s unfairly enthralling face to fuel its fire. However, there’s no stopping your ears from hearing in vivid, glorious, _punishing_ clarity as Loki continues to detail all the ways you uniquely possess his mind and heart, and his smooth, low voice keeps your blood simmering.

Loki's face moves closer and your breath hitches as he whispers slowly, "The only person I wish to share a bed with, to share my love and my life with..."

Loki doesn't acknowledge the weak blow of your open palm, but his pale eyes do drift down and linger at your lips before returning to your eyes as he leans close and murmurs against the corner of your mouth, his voice no more than the suggestion of sound as his breath ghosts over your skin, "To kiss."

He draws out the word like spun sugar against your skin, and suddenly, before the electric tingling his utterance has elicited at the nape of your neck fades away, you are filled with the sweet, heady sensation of his lips on yours. His kiss is insistent, and he works against you like a drowning man in search of air, pulling you close, one hand cradling the back of your head as the other loops around your waist and tightens until your body is flush against his under the covers.

Your eyes have long shut, and in the darkness your universe is composed of Loki and Loki alone as he reminds you of his love. There is a hint of clean, crisp mint on his breath, standing out like a sliver of glacial ice from the smoky mélange of soap and cologne and something uniquely Loki which clings to his skin, and if he weren't so intent on kissing you breathless (an endeavor which he pursues quite successfully), you would have tried to suck the addictive note into your lungs as you went after his plumped lower lip. But as things stand, you find yourself rather helpless, at your husband's sweet mercy as his lips work at spilling love into your very soul, and it takes all the effort you can muster to groan his name pleadingly into his mouth.

He presses harder into your mouth for a moment, devouring you with renewed intensity before his passion smolders into tenderness and he draws back slowly after one last caress. The sight of him practically glowing in the slanted moonlight is utterly ethereal. _Divine_ , your thoughts echo again in your mind. _Absolutely divine. And mine._

"This sorry fool of a husband has also forgotten to tell his wife that he loves her beyond measure, and that he begs forgiveness for upsetting her,” Loki breathes, eyes fixed on you in a way that makes you feel rather as if you’re the only being in existence at the moment.

It’s a gratifying, special sort of feeling, and you let it go to your head long enough for a bashful smile to appear on your tingling lips, still reddened from Loki’s vigorous determination to kiss it into you that he is not only faithful but _gregariously_ and unequivocally passionate about being so.

At the sight of your curving mouth, Loki’s own face breaks into a rare but brilliant illumination of joy. The light in his eyes rivals the brightness and purity of the moonlight gilding his skin, and not for the first time you wonder how someone so clearly divine had fallen in love and sworn themselves to you.

As if sensing your thoughts, Loki’s eyebrows furrow and he pulls you close once more, nestling your head under his chin and against his chest so that his slow, steady heartbeat thumps comfortingly in your ear. Soft, feather-light kisses scatter themselves over the crown of your head as he whispers sternly, “Stop thinking so much.”

You mumble some half-thought out excuse into his chest and he pokes your cheek firmly in reprimand.

“I love you,” he declares, in a resonant voice that you’ve heard him use to embody kings and emperors and gods, “I love you, I’ve loved you since before the day we swore ourselves to each other, and I’ll love you long after we pass through this stage into eternity.”

You feel rather than see the tilt of his smirk when he adds, “And you, silly woman, can do nothing about it.”

You intend to scoff at his ridiculous smugness, but the tenderness in his fingers as he runs them through your hair turns it into a tiny laugh as you plant a chaste kiss on the square of skin under your lips and nuzzle into him, wrapping your arms around his chest so that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his even breathing.

“I love you too,” you murmur in response, and you know he hears you despite your voice being muffled, because his heart quickens under your ear and his arms tighten ever so slightly around you.

Loki’s embrace surrounds you with quiet, unassuming safety, his pulse lulling you to sleep alongside the uniform rhythm of his breathing. Your eyes have drifted shut, your mind floating off to some hazy median between slumber and wakefulness when you hear his purring voice, gliding sleekly through the lavender whispers of dreams that coil thickly around your mind.

“I told you I could kiss it better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda wanna write more Actor AU drabbles for the MCU...any characters you want to see in particular?

**Author's Note:**

> Tried out a present-tense POV this time. What do you think?  
> Let me know if you prefer present-tense 2nd (like this) or past-tense 2nd (like [**Ripe**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19062439)  
>  ). Thanks for reading!


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